#Review - Badlands by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child #Occult #Supernatural #Mystery

Series: Nora Kelly (#5)
Format: Hardcover, 368 pages
Release Date: June 3, 2025
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Source: Publisher
Genre:  Occult & Supernatural

The #1 New York Times bestselling authors Preston & Child return with a thrilling tale in which archaeologist Nora Kelly and FBI Agent Corrie Swanson, while investigating bizarre deaths in the desert, awaken an ancient evil more terrifying than anything they’ve faced before.

In the New Mexico badlands, the skeleton of a woman is found—and the case is assigned to FBI Agent Corrie Swanson. The victim walked into the desert, shedding clothes as she went, and died in agony of heatstroke and thirst. Two rare artifacts are found clutched in her bony hands—lightning stones used by the ancient Chaco people to summon the gods. 

Is it suicide or… sacrifice? 

Agent Swanson brings in archaeologist Nora Kelly to investigate. When a second body is found—exactly like the other—the two realize the case runs deeper than they imagined. As Corrie and Nora pursue their investigation into remote canyons, haunted ruins, and long-lost rituals, they find themselves confronting a dark power that, disturbed from its long slumber, threatens to exact an unspeakable price. 

Badlands is the 5th installment in author Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child's Nora Kelly series, featuring archaeologist Nora Kelly and FBI Agent Corrie Swanson. FBI Agent Corrie Swanson is assigned the investigation into the skeleton of a woman found in the New Mexico badlands by a movie crew. The woman apparently walked into the desert, removed all her clothes while walking, and died of heatstroke and thirst. By the bones, an arrowhead and two round, green stones called lightning stones are found. 

When Corrie calls Nora to look at the arrowhead, Nora immediately takes more interest in the stones, which she identifies as scarce green lightning stones. The body is later identified as Molly Vine, who went missing five years earlier.  When another body is found and identified as Mandy Driver, a geological consultant, two green lightning stones are again found by her. Their investigation leads Corrie and Nora to believe that the two deaths might be connected to Professor Oskarbi who had ties to both deceased women at the University of New Mexico. 

He also had an interest in the Gallinas, indigenous people who used lightning stones and were wiped out in the 13th century by the Chaco Canyon people. How does this all connect together? As Corrie and Nora pursue the investigation into remote canyons, haunted ruins, and long-lost rituals, they find themselves confronting a dark power that, disturbed from its long slumber, threatens to exact an unspeakable price. In the meantime, Nora's younger brother, Skip, gets into a situation where he needs Nora to save him from his idiocy. 

The investigation follows some complicated turns along the way, and several different story lines are going on as everything heads to a run-in with the supernatural. Nora and Corrie complement each other, and having Nora’s brother, & Corrie’s very close friend, Sheriff Watts, in the story adds some depth to the story. Corrie, first introduced in Still Life with Crows (2003), has evolved from a troubled, rebellious teenager into a capable yet still-developing FBI agent who finally gets her chance to prove herself to her supervisors. 

I appreciate that the co-authors incorporated actual historical context into this story. I once visited New Mexico to visit a friend and interview for a job. I can honestly say the State has a unique and long history of Indian tribes that didn't like each other, and used brutality and genocide to wipe out entire tribes of men, women, and children. Going back to the 12th century, a tribe known as the Galina people lived in New Mexico. They were said to have been wiped out by another tribe called Chaco, which existed in the same time frame. Were they wiped out because they practiced dark magic and believed in Skinwalkers, or was it something else entirely? 

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#Review - The Hunter's Daughter by Nicola Solvinic #Thrillers #Supernatural

Series: Standalone
Format: Hardcover, 384 pages
Release Date: May 14, 2024
Publisher: Berkley
Source: Publisher
Genre: Thrillers / Supernatural

A hypnotic, sinister debut mystery about a seemingly good cop who is secretly the daughter of a notorious serial killer.

Anna Koray escaped her father’s darkness long ago. When she was a girl, her childhood memories were sealed away from her conscious mind by a controversial hypnosis treatment. She’s now a decorated sheriff’s lieutenant serving a rural county, conducting an ordinary life far from her father’s shadow. 

When Anna kills a man in the line of duty, her suppressed memories return. She dreams of her beloved father, his hands red with blood, surrounded by flower-decked corpses he had sacrificed to the god of the forest. 

To Anna’s horror, a serial killer emerges who is copying her father – and who knows who she really is. Is her father still alive, or is this the work of another? Will the killer expose her, destroying everything she has built for herself? Does she want him to?

But as she haunts the forest, using her father’s tricks to the hunt the killer, will she find what she needs most…or lose herself in the gathering darkness?

The Hunter's Daughter is the debut novel by Nicola Solvinic. Nicola has a master's degree in criminology and has worked in and around criminal justice for more than a decade at local, state, and federal levels. Much of that time was spent in law enforcement policy and corrections in the Midwest which makes this story a bit more realistic in nature. Nicola's main character is Anna Koray. Anna is a Bayern County Detective Lieutenant who has had something of a twisted upbringing.

 

Anna's father, Stephen Theron, was the serial killer called The Forest Strangler. When she was a girl, her childhood memories were sealed away from her conscious mind by a controversial hypnosis treatment. To make things worse, Anna was abandoned by her own mother who felt that she was too close to her father. She was adopted by the Koray's who allowed her to shine. She’s now a decorated sheriff’s lieutenant serving a rural county, conducting an ordinary life far from her father’s shadow. 

When Anna kills a man in the line of duty after responding to a domestic violence call (which is one of the most dangerous calls a police officer responds to on a daily basis), her suppressed memories return after being exposed by a hallucinogen. She dreams of her father, his hands red with blood, surrounded by flower-decked corpses he had sacrificed to the god of the forest named Veles. When a young woman's body is discovered in the same manner as her father's victims, rumors of a copycat serial killer arise. 

 

To Anna’s horror, a serial killer emerges who is copying her father and who knows who she really is. Is her father still alive, or is this the work of another? Is it possible that Anna has the same gene's as her father, and therefore is likely to have sociopathic moments? As Anna and her colleague Captain Wozniak learn some twisted secrets about Anna's father, a retired FBI Agent who helped stop Anna's father, is now back helping the FBI investigate the newest killer. Does this Agent know who Anna is? Will the killer expose her, destroying everything she has built for herself? Does she want him to?

 

*Thoughts* One of the basic premises of psychology is nature verses nurture. Just because you have the same genes as your parents, does that make you have the same tendencies? If your father was schizophrenic, does that mean you are as well? If your father, who you loved unconditionally, murdered almost 30 innocent women, does that mean you will do the same? Anna's past has prevented her from moving on with her future, especially with her on and off boyfriend who she has trouble showing true emotions for fearing she will just disappoint him. She's already lost her father, and her mother abandoned her after finding a new life for herself. As Anna struggles to deal with the past and the present which are on a collision course, the real emotions come out and maybe, just maybe, the truth will as well.

 

1

Awakening

The first time I killed a man was on Tuesday.

I thought I could get through my whole life without killing someone. I thought I could be virtuous. Peaceful. That I could broker treaties among evil men and shattered hearts. And I thought wrong.

I'd been driving home from work. It was late summer, when the skies become silver around dusk and the leaves begin to curl yellow at the edges. The sun was up, and I had the windows down, trying to absorb that last bit of heat on my skin before cold winter settled into my bones. Wind slid through my blond ponytail with invisible fingers while I squinted at the sunset through sunglasses. The falling light painted the two-lane country road in flashes of gold and shadow. My elbow rested on the window and my fingers combed through the air, feeling the swish of it against my palms. The police radio in my car hummed along at medium volume, and I was only half paying attention to the radio traffic. Though I was officially off duty, I was curious to hear if Sergeant Calvert was finally going to take the chief's car to the car wash after losing a bet on a high school football game.

"This is S12. C1 is out of service," a voice announced glumly. That was Calvert, admitting defeat. Finally.

"Acknowledged, S12. C1 is out of service," Dispatch chirped merrily.

Someone keyed their radio and a burst of applause echoed in the car. That was probably Chief Nelson. He'd already left the office, but I was pretty sure the chief of the Detective Bureau listened to the radio in his sleep.

The dispatcher broke in, her tone all business. "Code 20 at 7071 Stroud's Road."

I glanced at the road. I was only about a mile away. That was a domestic call, and I was likely closest. The county was seven hundred square miles, and it would take a while for backup to arrive. But I didn't like the idea of anyone getting their teeth knocked out when I could help it.

I keyed the radio. "This is L4. I'm at Sunday Creek and Route 6. En route." I flipped on the lights on my unmarked Crown Victoria and stepped on the gas, soaring over the blacktopped roads as the radio chattered.

"Acknowledged, L4. D2 is at 442 and Coffrey."

I thumbed the radio again. "Thanks, D2. I'll wait for you." I didn't hesitate because I was a woman in plain clothes. Departmental policy was that no one went to a domestic alone. Domestic violence cases could be unpredictable as fuck.

Adrenaline twitched through me as I drove down a hill and the sun slipped behind the trees. I pulled up before a dented rural mailbox with 7071 painted on the side. A gravel driveway wound into forest, and I couldn't see the house through the trees. I reached into the back seat for my vest, shrugged it on over my T-shirt, and tightened the Velcro straps. I put my detective's badge on a lanyard around my neck and buckled on my utility belt. I checked my cuffs, gun, and Taser, then pulled a radio out of its charging station. I tucked the base into my belt and threaded the toggle control up to the collar of my vest.

A shadow swept across the hood of my car. Reflexively, I reached to my belt. But it was only a bird sweeping low across the road, so low that its feathers nearly brushed my windshield. My heart rose in my throat at the magnificence of it: a great blue heron, wings moving in slow motion as it flew across the road and vanished in the forest.

A gunshot rang out in the direction of that gravel driveway winding down into a shady valley.

I sucked in my breath. "Shit."

I lunged out of the car, drawing my gun with my right hand and keying my radio with my left. "This is L4, 52A, 52A at 7071 Stroud's Road."

"Copy, L4. Hold your position. Backup is five miles away."

Five miles was an eternity. Some unlucky woman could be bleeding out on her kitchen floor while her husband was booking it out the back door. That vision was clear for me, clear as a movie playing out behind my mind's eye: a woman lying on a crusty linoleum floor, fingers twitching as the last of her air whistled through her ruined lungs.

I gritted my teeth. I couldn't let that happen. I tried to be a good cop who always followed the rules, but someone needed me more than the rules needed me to follow them. Aiming my gun at the ground, I stalked down the gravel drive. My boots crunched in the pale gray rock while the birds screamed around me. The canopy of the forest closed over my head, casting me in shadow. Sweat prickled on my brow as I came into view of a tiny yellow bungalow with algae-streaked siding. Its roof was covered in moss. A brand-new pickup truck was parked out front, and I scanned the area for a propane tank. If I had to use my weapon, I sure as hell didn't want to hit that.

I advanced upon the shiny red pickup, approaching the driver's side. I saw no movement in the mirror. I drew down and aimed my gun into the cab. The window was down, but no one was there. Keys dangled in the ignition. I didn't know what kind of clusterfuck I was walking into, but I didn't want any perps or witnesses to drive off.

I stepped up on the running board, reached in, and yanked the keys out of the ignition. I bumped my head on the visor, and a cloud of white dust rained down on me. My sinuses were flooded with the acrid smell of a Magic Marker. A plastic bag landed on the floorboards.

I swore silently and rubbed my arm across my face. The powder was all over the seat and over me. No telling what it was yet: could be cocaine, PCP, or, worse, fentanyl.

I keyed my radio: "Base, this is L4. Suspected drugs on scene with exposure. Backup should have PPE and request medic." Whatever this shit was, I wanted someone with Narcan en route . . . for myself and whoever had driven that truck.

I pocketed the keys and ducked behind the truck's front fender. I slipped my hand up to the hood. It was warm. Likely, the conflict inside hadn't been going on long . . . but long enough for a gunshot to punctuate it.

I projected my voice toward the house. "Bayern County Sheriff's Office. We need to talk."

I was hoping that would startle the perpetrator; that he-and it was statistically most likely to be a "he"-would go flying out the back door into the woods. If he came out the front, the truck was between him and me. Worst-case scenario would be him taking a hostage. Best case . . . he thought the woods were crawling with cops.

The screen door banged open, and a mid-thirties man in jeans and a black T-shirt strode down the slimy wooden steps. He held a shotgun in his hands. He was breathing fast, glowering, panicked.

"It's all right," I called. "Put down the gun and we'll talk, okay?"

My radio chattered but I wasn't listening. I was watching the guy pump the shotgun. I sucked in my breath, hoping to hell he wasn't going to shoot at his shiny new truck. His shoes crunched in the gravel. I backed up and scuttled around the edge of the bumper, gun raised. My pulse was pounding in my forehead, and I flipped the safety off.

"She fucking cheated on me," he was muttering. "She fucking cheated . . ."

And I was all of a sudden face-to-face with this wild-eyed man with a shotgun. His black T-shirt was wet, and a spatter of blood stained his arm.

I lifted my hand. "It's okay," I said soothingly. "It's okay . . ."

He aimed at me and pulled the trigger. Hundreds of pieces of birdshot rattled into me, and the shotgun blast rocked me out of my crouch into the gravel on my back. Pain seared me, and I gasped.

My pulse pounded harder, faster than the panic. I hadn't let go of my gun. I pressed both my fists around the grips, sighted through my bloody sunglasses, and fired.

I hit him in the gut. He was on the way down, but I kept shooting. He dropped to the ground, still clutching the shotgun.

I climbed, wincing, to my feet, supporting myself on the back fender of the truck. I felt surreally calm as I took a step toward him.

I fired. I hit him in the shoulder, and he shrieked.

I took another step.

I fired.

Another step.

Another bullet.

Gunfire rang out around me, deafening me. All I could hear was my blood thumping evenly in my ears. I was staring down at him, his fingers tangled in the shotgun's trigger guard. He wheezed, his mouth speckled in red, and his lips were moving, but I couldn't hear a thing.

I stood over him and shot him in the neck. His throat blossomed into red, and a piece of gravel, shattered, bounced back against my shin.

I collapsed to my knees beside him. Leaning over him, I watched his face intently. I knew he was dying. He gasped, gaping like a fish on land, as blood pumped through his shredded shirt and poured out of his torn-open throat. Bubbles emerged from the wound. He gurgled, his teeth stained red, and he twitched. His eyes rolled right and left, his pupils dilated, and his lower lip trembled above his sparse beard, sticking to it with a red string.

He looked up at me, gaze focused on my face. A drop of red dribbled down my chin and landed on his forehead.

And I felt it then . . . that moment where he was living and then not living. His chest stopped rattling, the blood slowed, and the twitching and fluttering faded. The focus of his gaze slackened, and I watched it like a voyeur, connected and yet disconnected to this vanishing of a man I didn't know.

He was dead.

I sat back in the gravel. Sound rushed back into my world, and I felt nauseous. I turned my head and vomited before collapsing in the gravel, overcome by the hundreds of piercing wounds burrowing into my body like hot worms. The shaded driveway felt cool against my body.

My radio buzzed distantly at my shoulder. I fumbled to key it.

"L4, 44," I whispered. Officer in trouble . . .

My radio squawked at me, but it sounded like a bird on my shoulder. Through my broken sunglasses, I stared up at the trees. I smelled metallic blood, leaf mold, and moss. Blood dripped into my right eye, and it stung. Disturbed by a pleasant breeze, yellow sugar maple leaves drifted down and stuck to my wet bulletproof vest. I stared, fascinated, as a whirligig seed pod spun down and stuck to my lip.

I exhaled, and its skeletal wing shuddered like a creature reborn.

2

The Fall

Sound roared around me. Sirens, yelling, and the squeal of radios. I was conscious of my sunglasses pulled from my eyes and a plastic mask fitted over my face. I stared up, up at the trees and the silver sky, as I was carried up the narrow gravel drive to an ambulance. I searched the sky for the heron but didn't find it.

I was still, croaking one-word answers to the fingers paramedics put in front of my face, tasting blood. I didn't know if I'd bitten my lip or bloodied my nose or if it was a sign of much worse.

"Do you know your name?" one paramedic who looked to be barely out of high school asked me.

I paused for a moment before answering, and he and the other paramedic exchanged worried glances.

"Anna Koray," I said finally.

"Good." The paramedics nodded as they stabbed my arms for IV lines. They cut my bulletproof vest off with scissors at the straps and cut away my T-shirt. I lay quietly, listening to the blood thumping evenly in my skull. It ticked like a metronome, a regular thud under the churning lights and motion and distant sirens. I felt myself moving quickly, hurtling over dips and valleys in the road. I knew we'd reached the hospital when white fluorescent light washed over me. I closed my eyes because the light was too bright, bright as noonday sun shining on water. Behind my eyes, I saw the life draining away from the man I killed, feeling that last instant as something ephemeral escaped him, an unseen exhalation . . .

"Anna."

I opened my eyes. A man leaned over me-a man I knew. His brow was creased as brown eyes stared down at me.

"Nick." My lips were dry, and the mask over my face fogged. I hadn't seen him since we'd broken up six months earlier. He'd pursued me hard with his wit and his charm, and I'd slowed down long enough for him to catch me. It was . . . too good. He was attentive, appreciative. We never argued; to him, my happiness mattered more than whatever petty thing we could ever find to argue about. I felt safe with him. The sex was the best I'd ever had. Unlike the men I'd known before, he didn't diminish me in any way. He and I, somehow, were more together than the sum of our parts. He'd wanted more. I . . . didn't know what I wanted. I think I was afraid to fully open up to him, to be vulnerable. I'd felt trapped in a way I didn't want to admit, like I did now, pinned under his dark gaze that searched my face for truths I couldn't give him. There were shadows beneath his eyes that I didn't remember from before.

Mercifully, he looked away from me to bark orders at the nurses. It figured that I would wind up in his emergency room, and during one of his shifts. I closed my eyes and listened to the regular beeping of the machines.

I felt a hand slip into mine before I drifted into darkness.

I dreamed I was a nine-year-old girl walking in the woods with my dad. His calloused hand was in my left hand, and we walked through a summer field. My right hand gripped a sticky dandelion. My cheeks felt warm with sunburn.

"Are we going to see the tree houses?" I asked.

He smiled, his face crinkling around his gray eyes. "You mean the tree stands?"

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#Review - Ghost Island by Max Seeck #Mystery #Occult

Series: Jessica Niemi # 4
Format: Paperback, 384 pages
Release Date: February 27, 2024
Publisher: Berkley
Source: Publisher
Genre: Mystery / Occult

On a secluded island, homicide detective Jessica Niemi must investigate a drowning that is tied to a frightening ghostly legend in this riveting new novel from the New York Times bestselling author of THE WITCH HUNTER.

Jessica Niemi is put on leave after a violent altercation between her and a belligerent man makes headlines. To escape the unwanted scrutiny, Jessica travels to a remote island in the Åland archipelago and rents a room at a small seaside inn. She is hoping to be left alone as she faces the possibility that she is losing what is left of her sanity but three elderly visitors have arrived at the inn for their yearly sojourn. Jessica learns that they are the remaining ‘birds of spring’, former refugees who fled Finland as children during World War II and lived together for a few months in an orphanage on the island.

The orphanage no longer exists but the local legend about one of its inhabitants, a girl named Maija, still haunts the surviving orphans. Every evening Maija would put on her blue coat and stand on the pier, looking out at the dark water until one night, she disappeared and was never seen again. When one of the ‘birds of spring’ is found dead, drowned alongside the same pier, and Jessica learns about two other deaths from the past, also connected to the orphanage, she has no choice but to try and put the pieces of this terrifying mystery together.

Jessica can’t be sure whether she’s facing a killer or—just like the legend says—the ghost of Maija, the girl in the blue coat. Uncertain what is real and what is not, Jessica desperately searches for answers that she hopes will stop the murders and finally silence her own demons once and for all…

Ghost Island, by Max Seeck, is the fourth installment in the author's Jessica Niemi series. Or, as certain outlets are calling it, A Ghost of the Past novel. This story alternates between the year 2020, and the year 1946. Helsinki Violent Crimes Detective Sergeant Jessica Niemi is haunted by her dark past and the scars left by a coven of witches that nearly destroyed her. Jessica has faced not only a murderous cult but also human trafficking and the assassination of a government official.

Even though she is one of the lead Detectives in her unit, and has the record to back up her experience, she is having issues with dissociating what is real, and what is not. After a violent altercation between her and a belligerent man makes headlines, her boss Helena Lappi, who despises Jessica, orders her to take off until an investigation can be completed to see if Jessica's actions were warranted or not. To escape the unwanted scrutiny, Jessica travels to a remote island in the Åland archipelago and rents a room at a small seaside inn. 

She is hoping to be left alone as she faces the possibility that she is losing what is left of her sanity and likely her job as well as something she never expected. When three elderly visitors arrive at the inn for their yearly sojourn, Jessica learns that they are the remaining ‘birds of spring’, former refugees who fled Finland as children during World War II and lived together for a few months in an orphanage on the island. The orphanage no longer exists but the local legend about one of its inhabitants, a girl named Maija, still haunts the surviving orphans. 

Every evening Maija would put on her blue coat and stand on the pier, looking out at the dark water hoping that her father would come and bring her home. The parents never arrived because their ship sank. Then one night, she disappeared and was never seen again. When one of the ‘birds of spring’ is found dead, drowned alongside the same pier, and Jessica learns about two other deaths from the past, also connected to the orphanage, she has no choice but to try and put the pieces of this terrifying mystery together. 

*Thoughts* The story is told in two-time levels, so in flashbacks, you learn a lot about life in the orphanage, which was not always unproblematic, and also about the fates of the individual children. In this book, everyone is a suspect. Even Jessica. Dead bodies have a tendency to appear whenever she's around. Jessica's co-workers like Yusuf play minium parts in this story since they are afraid that they will become the next target of Helena's wrath. With the surprise the author reveals in the middle of this mystery, I find it hard to believe that there will be another installment in this series.  

1

2020

The hum is so soft that it isn't really disturbing. Even so, Jessica can't help but notice it.

The other woman is waiting for her to speak, has been for almost a minute now. The thought in Jessica's head is unusually clear, but uttering it requires effort.

"I guess I'm trying to say . . . I'd anchored my life in another person's presence," she begins, and is caught off guard by the confident note in her voice. "Saw it from someone else's perspective. Does that make any sense?"

The woman sitting across from Jessica in a beige armchair doesn't immediately respond, uses the silence to encourage Jessica to continue thinking out loud. She is skilled at leading; the session seems to be progressing according to a predetermined choreography instead of there being two equals sitting there in armchairs, conversing without an agenda. Everything is clinical and coordinated, but Jessica doesn't let it bother her. She knew what she was getting into when she started her psychotherapy sessions a month ago.

"Before I met Erne . . . I was lost. I didn't understand it at the time . . . And now-"

Suddenly Jessica's voice thickens as if she is forbidden from continuing. As if someone else is forbidding her.

The therapist doesn't rush Jessica; she sits in her seat, adjusts her grip on her ballpoint pen. Retracts the tip, then clicks it back out. Under some circumstances, the intermittently repeated mannerism would make a restless impression, but the psychiatrist repeats it in a controlled fashion.

Jessica looks at the woman's angular knuckles and light blue fingernails. They're surprisingly glossy, and for this reason it is somehow brazen for them to be the fingernails of a doctor specializing in psychiatry: a client opening up her heart might have the right to expect something more conservative. More empathetic. Something that shows her therapist isn't above the situation.

"Jessica?"

Jessica looks up at her therapist's face. "What?"

There's a break in her train of thought; perhaps her brain was trying to scan for visual stimuli as an excuse for her to stop talking.

A tender look creeps across the therapist's suntanned face. "Please go on. You were saying that you were lost, and now . . ."

It takes Jessica a moment to reorder her thoughts. She doesn't actually want to reveal her insight to this woman-or to anyone else, for that matter-but at the same time she is burning with a desire to hear the conclusion articulated out loud, to let the words spill out for a professional to assess. She wants to know whether her demons are capable of dodging the psychiatrist's sharp eye, of hiding skillfully, or might they nakedly expose themselves as a result of this sudden insight?

"I guess I've never really liked my life. Or myself, actually. Then suddenly there was someone who admired me in his own way. Loved me. The way a father loves a daughter. And it gave life meaning." Jessica sits there listening to the words she just uttered, as if they echoed in the emptiness. And suddenly she is overcome with shame. "I'm not totally sure whether this is about losing Erne Or about losing a perspective that was important to me. About the fact that I didn't just love Erne. More like I loved myself the way he saw me," she continues, despite her rational mind's insistence that she stop.

The psychiatrist lowers her notepad to the armrest and presses her fingertips together.

She looks serious.

"I think we are possibly now on the cusp of something major."

Jessica cannot help but hear the massive cliché in this sentiment. Is this supposed to be the breakthrough they're always talking about on TV series?

"But . . . ?" she asks.

The therapist smiles, as if to reward Jessica for her insightful question. "But at the same time, I'm a little worried."

Jessica shakes her head because she isn't totally sure what the other woman is referring to. Not totally, although she has an enlightened guess.

"Do you feel as if your life hasn't had a purpose since Erne died?" the therapist asks, raising her head slightly. "Did that die along with Erne?"

Jessica looks at the other woman, whose face looks concerned. Perhaps it's purely professional concern, but it's concern nonetheless.

And when Jessica doesn't respond, the other woman continues: "Do you feel like at some point in your life you began to live for Erne alone?"

Jessica frowns; a rising nausea sears her throat. She reaches for her glass, takes a swig of room-temperature water, and turns toward the window. The leafless branches of the large oak sway in the wind; they crook like bony fingers stripped of flesh. The ceiling lights dim, casting the room in gloom. The hum grows louder, as if the electromagnetic potential in it is increasing.

"It's typical for people to want to please others, for instance their parents, and when the people on whose behalf we have made these efforts-which at times are in profound conflict with our own self-image-depart from our lives for good . . . the death can leave an enormous void. This void entails not only longing but also meaninglessness. The person no longer knows how to or even if they want to live solely for themselves. Am I on the right track?"

Jessica doesn't reply. She watches the branches that continue to dance outside, sees them penetrate the room through the seams of the white window frames without shattering the panes of glass. They slither across the floor and wrap around her ankles like gleaming black snakes. Gradually they tighten their grip, probe warily. "Because if that's the situation we're dealing with," the therapist says, "we need to approach it with the requisite seriousness."

Jessica blinks several times, and the lighting in the room returns to normal.

The snakes retreat, withdraw to the other side of the window frame, and freeze into trees again, as if in reverse entropy. For a moment, the yellow light in the room feels blinding.

The psychiatrist reaches for her pad and starts making notes. Jessica sees the woman's wrist move the pen but isn't sure what she's writing. Has she just jotted down the words "depressed" and possibly "self-destructive" in her leather-bound book? That would be a pretty apt description of Jessica's state, which means the headshrinker has earned her hourly fee, she supposes.

"Who does?" Jessica says, lowering her glass to the table. The nausea has overtaken her entire body; her stomach is roiling and her esophagus is burning. She has the urge to dash into the bathroom to vomit, but she restrains herself, swallows a few times.

"What do you mean?"

"You said we have to approach it seriously."

"You and I," the therapist clarifies, and adjusts her thin-framed glasses. "We've gone over a lot of things this past month and made some important observations, but today is the first time I've heard something we absolutely must address. I'd call it a hopelessness of sorts. It's important to pull ourselves out of such mental states, even if it's not necessarily easy."

Out in the freezing air, the branches stop moving until a powerful, howling gust brings them back to life. This time they don't cause Jessica to lose her focus.

"Tuula?" Jessica says, hearing how strange the name sounds when spoken out loud. It's probably the first time over the course of their brief patient-therapist relationship that Jessica has called the psychiatrist by her first name.

"Yes?"

"Over the last couple years alone I've investigated a dozen manslaughters or murders . . ." Jessica chuckles without smiling. "When you break through a brick wall and find a beautiful young woman inside . . . or see a man who has been stoned to death, his bashed-in skull covered by a still-bloody headful of hair . . . or when you smell the flesh of someone who's been burned alive . . . which in turn makes you think that somewhere in the world dogs are cooked alive, because the adrenaline produced by the terror and pain makes the meat tender . . ."

The psychiatrist looks ill at ease and would presumably like to ask Jessica to stop in order for her to define clearer boundaries for their conversations, but she cannot interrupt her patient, not now that Jessica is giving more of herself than ever before.

"Do you understand what I'm getting at?" Jessica says, then continues before the psychiatrist has time to react: "I've never had any hope. None of us do. But in the past I guess I knew how to deal with it better. I'd accepted the meaninglessness of my own existence."

The psychiatrist shuts her notebook and presses it into her lap, under her palms. "Jessica. We need to consider the alternative that-"

A wave of nausea washes over Jessica's body, and she springs out of the chair in the middle of the psychiatrist's sentence. The nausea that began on her way here has been churning inside her for the entire session and is growing less bearable with every passing instant.

"I have to go."

"But it's only half past," the psychiatrist says in confusion, craning her neck to see the wall clock behind Jessica.

"Sorry. I'll pay for the full hour."

"That's not what I-"

"Thank you, Tuula."

The other woman looks dumbfounded but quickly pulls herself together: "Shall we book the next session?"

Jessica doesn't reply. The branches of the oak tree scratch the window, and she shoots them a quick glance.

I don't think we're going to be seeing each other again. Good-bye.

2

Over the wail of the wind, Jessica hears the heavy wooden door shut behind her. The sky beyond the apartment buildings peering over Kruunuvuorenkatu is a pale gray. The wet rails splitting the narrow street carry the clank of the approaching streetcar.

Watery snowflakes glue themselves to Jessica's face as she adjusts her scarf to cover her cheeks. The vomit rising from her throat compels her to lower her head. She tries to draw in fresh air through her nostrils, hopes this will deter the swelling nausea, but the cold wind only intensifies the burn she's been feeling in her nose since sitting down in the psychiatrist's armchair.

Jessica knows she won't make it home. She glances at the building portico; the ornamental iron gate is open. There's not a soul in the long, vaulted passage leading to the inner courtyard. The courtyard is her only hope; she won't make it any farther than that. Jessica takes a few unsteady steps, passes through the gate, and is glancing back a final time when the stomach acid gushes up and out of her esophagus and splatters to the asphalt.

She wipes her mouth, bends over, and retches again.

Out on the street, the streetcar clatters past. Jessica swears to herself, raises her head, and gives herself a minute. She hawks up the dregs of vomit from her throat and spits the bile-saturated clumps to the ground.

Then she hears squelching footfalls carrying from the courtyard. Someone's coming.

She quickly pulls herself up to standing and leans with her hand against the wall, but the bearded man in the neon yellow safety coveralls who has trudged out from behind the rug-beating rack has already seen too much.

"What's going on here?" he asks, standing at a safe distance with his hands on his hips. There's no concern in his voice, more rebuke: he's like a teacher who has just ambushed ninth graders at their smoking spot.

"What does it look like?" Jessica says, wiping her mouth on her coat sleeve.

"How dare you?"

"Sorry. But it's not like I asked to feel sick."

The man sneers in disgust; his face darkens. "Do you even live here?" he says, grabbing a snow shovel leaning against the building. "I don't remember ever having seen-"

Jessica doesn't answer, just turns to continue on her way.

"Hey, answer me! Are you drunk? You're going to clean up after yourself, damn it!"

Jessica pauses at the iron gate and looks back. She doesn't have any reason to behave threateningly; just the opposite: she should act in accordance with her values, apologize and explain that she simply isn't feeling well. That's the truth, after all. She would, of course, pay for the cleaning, including an extra fee for the repulsiveness of the task, if doing so would get this courtyard tyrant guarding his little kingdom to calm down.

"You're fucking drunk," he says, looking Jessica up and down.

But the building super-judging by his eagerness to call Jessica to account, that's who he must be-has through his own behavior laid a weak foundation for this encounter's dynamics.

"What if I were?" Jessica says.

The man laughs. The mouth between the pockmarked cheeks turns up in a gleeful smirk. "You can be as drunk as you want, but you're not going to make a mess of my yard, goddamn it."

"I'm sorry. I don't feel well," Jessica says, and is about to continue on her way again.

But the man won't relent. "Hey, little miss," he says, his voice a meter closer than it was before.

Little miss. Something inside Jessica blazes up.

She turns around to feel the man's thick fingers clenching her wrist.

"Let go," Jessica says quietly, but the fingers' grip just tightens.

The man brings his face closer, as if sniffing for alcohol on Jessica's breath. Apparently he's not a germophobe, considering she just puked. The jeering smile oozes with a condescending lust Jessica learned to identify long ago but would never learn to tolerate.

"Let go," Jessica says, trying to yank her arm free.

The man shakes his head and raises the shovel. "You're not going anywhere until you've cleaned up this mess. Or should I call the police?"

"Let go of me."

The man tightens his grip. Of course Jessica could tell him she's a police officer herself; an ID confirming the matter is in her wallet. But she doesn't want this guy to know any more about her than necessary. His eyes bore deeply into Jessica's, which are no doubt red after many sleepless nights. He probably thinks she's some sort of street trash, and Jessica's old sneakers, gray sweats, and black lived-in parka don't help matters.

"Goddamn junkie whore. I know your type . . . ," he says, and for a few silent moments something ignites in his eyes: maybe it's the sensation of power; maybe it's the titillation of the unexpected encounter and the situation. Maybe it's a desire to punish, to give a drunk girl some fatherly discipline. Jessica tastes the vomit in her mouth, takes in the fifty-year-old man's fat cheeks and coarse stubble. The jubilant look on his face.

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#Review - Such Sharp Teeth by Rachel Harrison #Occult & #Supernatural

Series: Standalone
Format: Hardcover, 336 pages
Release Date: October 4, 2022
Publisher: Berkley Books
Source: Publisher
Genre: Occult & Supernatural

A young woman in need of a transformation finds herself in touch with the animal inside in this gripping, incisive novel from the author of Cackle and The Return.

Rory Morris isn’t thrilled to be moving back to her hometown, even if it is temporary. There are bad memories there. But her twin sister, Scarlett, is pregnant, estranged from the baby’s father, and needs support, so Rory returns to the place she thought she’d put in her rearview. After a night out at a bar where she runs into an old almost-flame, she hits a large animal with her car. And when she gets out to investigate, she’s attacked. Rory survives, miraculously, but life begins to look and feel different. She’s unnaturally strong, with an aversion to silver—and suddenly the moon has her in its thrall. She’s changing into someone else—something else, maybe even a monster. But does that mean she’s putting those close to her in danger? Or is embracing the wildness inside of her the key to acceptance? This darkly comedic love story is a brilliantly layered portrait of trauma, rage, and vulnerability.

Such Sharp Teeth, by author Rachel Harrison, is her follow up to Cackle and The Return. The story is set in the Catskill Mountains of New York State. Aurora "Rory" Morris isn’t thrilled to be moving back to her hometown, even if it is temporary. There are bad memories here that soured her relationship with her mother. But her twin sister, Scarlett, is pregnant, estranged from the baby’s father, Matty, and needs support; so Rory returns to the place she thought she’d put in her rear view after a horrible past. 

 

After a night out at a bar where she runs into an old almost-flame, Ian Pedretti, she hits a large animal with her car. And when she gets out to investigate, she’s attacked. It wasn't a bear or wild dog or any other creature you might imagine; it was a werewolf. Rory survives, miraculously, but life begins to look and feel different. She’s unnaturally strong, with an aversion to silver—and suddenly the moon has her in its thrall and she has a mad cravings for any kind of meat. She’s changing into someone else—something else, maybe even a monster. 

 

But does that mean she’s putting those close to her in danger? Or is embracing the wildness inside of her the key to acceptance? Rory already had, shall we say anger issues, and becoming a werewolf is not any kind of recommended therapy to calm down. Her transformation parallels to her sisters pregnancy, with Scarlett less than thrilled to be taken over by her growing monster inside. She's less thrilled to find out that she can't push Ian aside while dealing with her internal struggle. Scarlett and Rory may be twins but their personalities are like night and day. 

 

Scarlett remained in their hometown while Rory loved living and working in NYC. Scarlett never really understood why Rory was so angry at their mother who seemed to have a different man around when they grew up. So, while Rory is dealing with her own transformation, her relationship with Ian, she also has to decide whether or not to forgive her mother for ignoring her pleas for help that caused Rory to pretty much run away, and later made a pretty decent life for herself in New York City. A life that could all but be over once that full moon hits, and she becomes something else. 

 

This has been labeled as a darkly comedic love story, and a brilliantly layered portrait of trauma, rage, and vulnerability that is supposed to appeal to feminists. Yet, one has to ask, where are the feminists when women all over this country are being physically assaulted on the street, in restaurants, on the subway, or other places that are supposed to be safe, or being replaced entirely by men? Where are the feminists when their attackers are freed almost immediately so that they can attack yet another woman, or an elderly person who has done nothing to deserve being assaulted?

Moths flutter around the fluorescent bulb as it blinks into the dark outside the bar. I lean back and lift my gaze to the night. There’s no light pollution out here, and the stars are fierce. The moon is full, so I give it a wink.

“Did you just wink at me?”

Ian’s so tall he blocks out the moon. When he’s in front of you, there’s nothing else. He’s all there is.

“I did wink,” I say. “But not at you. Sorry.”

“All right,” he says. “Glad we cleared that up.”

“Apologies for any confusion.”

He doesn’t say anything else. He turns away from me to exhale, releasing a calm river of smoke toward the parking lot.

“Are you disappointed?” I ask him. “Did I give you false hope for a second there?”

“Well, yeah, but I’ve had false hope since we were thirteen, so I’m used to it,” he says, turning back toward the light so I can see his good-­natured grin.

It’s been so many years since I last saw that grin. My heart begins to thump mutinously inside my chest. Maybe his hope isn’t false after all.

All right, then. Time to go.

“I should head home. My sister will be jealous if she thinks I’m out having too much fun while she’s stuck home. Sober.”

“Tell Scarlett I say hello,” he says.

“I will,” I say, patting my pockets to check for my wallet, my keys. “Happy we ran into each other. Good to see you.”

“Yeah,” he says. “We should run into each other again while you’re still in town.”

I search for a cool, noncommittal response among the assortment I store readily under my tongue. I fumble. My lips part but offer nothing.

“Or not,” he says, shrugging his massive shoulders. He pushes his glasses up his nose, the same squarish black Ray-­Bans he wore in high school. Behind the thick lenses, his eyes are a striking, unusual blue. Cobalt.

“No, yeah,” I stammer. “I mean, yes. Of course.”

Horrifying.

“You good to drive? I can give you a ride,” he says.

“I’m good. One beer. I can walk in a straight line for you, though, if you like. ABC’s backwards.”

“Could you?”

“I’m shy.”

He laughs.

“All right.” I take my car keys out of my pocket. I slip my index finger into the key ring and flip them around. “Good night.”

“Bye, Rory.”

I’m curious if he’s watching me as I walk to my car. The restraint it takes to not sneak a glance over my shoulder. Shameful.

I’ll leave this part out when I tell Scarlett.

If I tell Scarlett.

Despite her current situation, she seems to have retained her position as a hard-­core romantic. She’s like Mom. If I tell her I bumped into Ian Pedretti, forget it.

I get into the car and turn the heat on, thawing myself from the October chill. I pull out of the parking lot, stealing a quick look in my rearview.

Ian is still there, finishing his cigarette.

I forgot about the mist. There’s an ever-­present mist that skulks around here like a townie. It tumbles down from the mountain, seeps out of the woods, and slathers itself across the dull suburban landscape. It might be the only defining quality of my hometown. Persistent mist.

Even with my brights on, there’s negligible visibility. I drive slowly around the winding curves of Cutter Road. I used to know it by heart. I could drive it in the dark no problem, but it’s been a long time since I’ve been back. I didn’t think it was something I could lose. I thought that the map of this place was etched into me, that I could navigate from muscle memory, but I guess time erases the things you least expect.

A yawn crawls out of me. It’s dramatic about it. The heat has me sleepy. I need to stay awake and alert for the five minutes it’ll take me to get back to Scarlett’s. Doesn’t seem like too monumental a task, but after years of being able to zone out on the subway, passively observing stops and the occasional kerfuffle, the additional attention required for driving seems like a big ask. I turn off the heat and crack open the windows, hoping the fresh air will keep me honest.

In comes the signature campfire smell of autumn, but also something else. Something more potent and less appealing. I sniff.

It’s wet animal.

The distinct scent of damp fur.

It’s overpowering. I consider closing the window, but then my phone chimes.

My eyes obediently flick over to the illuminated screen, and . . .

Thud.

Time leaps ahead, dragging me by the neck. It leaves me with my lungs convulsing, a hideous screeching in my ears. My seat belt is tight, at my throat like a knife.

My car is facing in the wrong direction. I inhale, and it’s just burning rubber.

I hit something.

I hit something.

The sound, that grievous thud, replays loudly in my head. It’s relentless, with a severe disorienting urgency.

I pull at my seat belt, attempting to loosen it, so I can breathe, but it’s dead set on anchoring me in this hellish moment. I feel around for the button with a trembling hand. I find it eventually, and the seat belt releases with a fast snap. I open the car door and stumble onto the road.

The cold pulls me out of the fog of my shock. I do a quick examination of my body. Extremities seem to be intact. I feel my face. Aside from the wide gape of my mouth, there’s nothing concerning. I move my neck side to side.

I’m fine.

Car? Not fine. My front bumper, the grille, whatever, is now so deeply indented, it’s the shape of a V.

What did I hit? What could possibly cause that much damage? A deer?

I clench my teeth and take a minute to allow the reality to fully set in, as much as I’d prefer to hang out in the cozy palm of denial. I brace myself for the inevitable cycle of emotions. Anger at myself for being an irresponsible driver, frustration at the situation in general. Remorse for the animal I almost certainly killed.

I wasn’t speeding. I was going only thirty, thirty-­five at most. But if the sound and the state of my car are any indication, RIP. I guess I should check to make sure I don’t abandon a concussed house pet, some freshly maimed family dog. If that’s what I hit and there’s a chance that it’s somehow still alive, that means there’s a chance I can save it.

I turn toward the road. Mist curls in all directions; it peels from the night like the skin from ripe fruit. There’s a glittering black smear on the road, mostly eluding the reach of my headlights. I step toward it, holding my breath, preparing my apology to Spot or Bambi.

My presence disrupts the mist, and between my headlights, aggressive starlight, and a cruel, gawking moon, I can see the mess I’ve made.

I can’t even tell what kind of animal it is. Or was.

It’s inside out. The impact must have skinned it somehow because there’s no evidence of fur. Giant worms of intestines unravel across the road. The wet abstract of organs contrasts against the pale shock of bone. It’s a shapeless horror. An absolute massacre.

“I’m sorry,” I tell it, searching for some hint of its identity. There’s a lot of it, whatever it is. Too much. Guessing a deer? I scan for antlers.

There’s a lump. I squint, stepping deeper into the haze. My eyes adjust, and I can see that the lump is fur. A neat mound of fur. Beside the mound, staring up at me with dead glassy eyes, is a head. I was right. It was a deer.

How is this possible? I was not going over thirty-­five. And even if I was . . .

Something possesses me to reach out and hover my hand over the carcass. It’s cold. There’s no heat coming off it, no warmth at all. I just hit it. If it just died, wouldn’t it still be warm?

I linger over the deer, wondering, until I realize I’m not required to turn in an autopsy report. It’s not a mystery I need to solve. I killed it. I feel bad; that’s it. My punishment is I’ll likely never be able to stomach meat again. I’ll be a vegetarian and a conscientious driver.

I sigh and straighten my legs.

I pause to listen. I hear something. Labored breathing. A sharp inhale followed by the slow rip of an exhale. It repeats.

I bring my hand to my chest. Its surf is steady. Rise, fall. Rise, fall. It contradicts the sound. But if I’m not making it, what is?

There’s an onslaught of darkness, confusing me for all of two seconds before I realize something has passed in front of the headlights.

Until I realize I’m not the one who killed that deer.

I turn around.

It eclipses the headlights, concealing itself in darkness. I can make out a vague outline, trace an enormous mass sliced from shadow. It suddenly shifts between the headlights, uncoiling itself. The light scalds my eyes, forcing a brief retreat into the refuge of my head. I’m tempted to let them stay there, to leave my eyes closed and maybe just never open them again, never face whatever it is in front of me. But something else—­maybe survival instinct or curiosity—­wins out.

I open my eyes, and at first they struggle against the brightness. All I can see is that whatever’s there, positioned between me and my car, it’s standing upright.

A bear. It’s a bear. It’s the size of a large bear. It’s got four limbs. A head. Fur.

I blink, and the scene comes into focus.

I’ve never seen a bear like this. Its proportions are weird.

It stands on the pads of its feet. They’re not really paws. They’re big but narrow, and they’ve got fur, only it’s sparse, and where there’s none, grayish skin is stretched tight over thin splinters of bone. Its toes are each about the size of my fist, and from them extend thick black nails, sharp, almost like talons. Its legs are long. Slim pale muscles slither around exposed bone, fur detaching in certain places, like around the knees. The legs have a disturbing bend to them. They’re not straight. They won’t straighten. They’re hind legs.

It’s slouched, concealing part of its torso. There’s fur missing there, too. Its skin has been pulled too taut; there are obvious rips where the thing is fleshless. I can see a sickening twist of ribs and spongy insides, but most of it is shadowed by the curtain of its arms. The thing pulls them forward but leaves them limp. They dangle down past its knees.

Its hands are marred. Leathery tangled mitts. Bones peek through recessions of fur. Its giant knuckles are bald. Its fingers have way too many joints; they bend and unbend and bend.

I look up at its head.

A whiteness escapes its wide-­open jaws. Froth pours through its fangs. Beyond its snout, two red eyes bore into me. The color of them, it’s unreal.

It can’t be real.

Did someone slip something into my beer?

I feel the skepticism creep across my expression, my eyebrows sinking, eyes narrowing as I study the thing standing in front of me. My doubt releases me from my fear, and for a moment the creature isn’t real and I’m safe.

It must sense this, because it rears back, head up, opening its chest to the sky, arms wide. I can hear the awful creak of its jaw as it unhinges to an alarming degree, the separation between its teeth staggering. It begins to scream. The torturous pitch funnels ice into my veins. It’s agonizing.

The scream splits, harmonizing with itself. It’s like there’s more than one voice.

Animals shouldn’t be able to scream like that.

It’s going on forever. I don’t know if it’ll ever stop. Should I run? Why haven’t I already started running?

The thing finally stops screaming. It collapses onto all fours. It turns to me, and the clarity of its red gaze is unnerving. I understand.

It’s angry. I hit it with my car. I interrupted its dinner.

And it’s starving.

I run.

I take off into the mist. I’m a runner but this is different. Running for your life is different. It sucks.

I’m vulnerable on the road. There’s nowhere for me to hide. If another car comes, it’s more likely to hit me than be able to help me. I veer into the woods.

The wet carpet of moss swallows my footsteps. I dodge branches, hop over rocks. I know it’s following me because it’s not stealthy. It doesn’t need to be because it’s huge and fanged and fast. It’s got that predator confidence. It knows it can catch me because it’s the predator. And I’m prey.

It’s not the first beast to see me this way. Might be the last, though.

My thoughts distract me. My run becomes increasingly reckless. A wayward arm smacks a cluster of low foliage. The rustle is thunderous.

I can’t think. I can’t think about what’s happening. I can’t stop to conjure the image of what’s hunting me, pause to marvel at the horror of it. No time for How? or Why? or What the ever-­loving fuck? Its snarls cleave the quiet; its hot breath is at my heels. Any hope of escape is obliterated. I’m not going to outrun the thing. I can’t. I’m not getting home to my sister, who needs me. I can’t go any faster.

Is this it, then? My final thought: This is as fast as I can go.

I spit dirt and blood from my mouth. The pain is disorienting. I’m facedown. The gentle creep of insect legs along my cheek is the only sensation I can decisively identify. The rest is just nebulous torment.

My ankle, maybe?

The brutal bloom of heat on my shoulder interrupts my analysis, and I’m flipped over onto my back. It’s done easily, like I have no weight, like it’s nothing, like I’m nothing. My body is not a factor, except right now I know it’s the only factor. I go rigid.

It looms above me, the moon providing a direct spotlight, a wraithlike glow. Honestly, I could do without it. Fuck you, moon. I don’t need my death by large inbred animal to have good lighting. Dark would be fine. Preferable.

I could close my eyes, but it’s kind of hard when the thing looks the way it does.

I can almost hear the chiding of my future self, if there were to be a future self. Or maybe it’s the chorus of outsiders who might someday read about what happened to me and wonder aloud, “Why didn’t she?” “Why didn’t she wriggle away?” “If it were me, I would have punched it in the face!” “I would have fought back!” “I would have screamed!”

Why didn’t I? Why don’t I?

Because I can’t.

I can’t.

It lowers itself down. It sniffs me, starting at my feet. It’s removed my boots, or they’ve come off somehow. Not sure. I can see now that my ankle is twisted, bloody. My jeans are torn to shreds. They were my favorite jeans, too.

The soft twitch of my grin meets a salty wetness. I’m crying.

Scarlett.

I’m grateful we never had that special twin thing. We were disappointed as children that we didn’t have that connection. She broke her collarbone at a soccer game, and I was across town having the time of my life sleeping over at Ash’s. Double-­fisting s’mores and dancing along to music videos on MTV. No phantom pain. No nothing.

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